


serendipity

by paperthinn



Series: 'accio harry potter!' [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy In Heels, Dresses, Feminization, French Characters, Lingerie, M/M, Piano Sex, Rimming, first fic of pride month 2020 whoo!!!, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24536212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperthinn/pseuds/paperthinn
Summary: ser·en·dip·i·ty/ˌserənˈdipədē/nounthe occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: 'accio harry potter!' [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1872649
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108





	serendipity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CAIOLOGY](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CAIOLOGY/gifts).



> A MONTH! it's been almost a month since i posted a fic!! fuck man time flew by so fast i literally lost motivation... i've had this one in my drafts for what feels like forever and i promised a certain someone i would finish their prompt before i went to sleep so HELLO!!! piano sex!!!!
> 
> anyways, this one was wild because i dont remember writing the first like 1k words so it's whatever... 
> 
> mind the notes at the bottom, as always :-)

The black satin dress Harry bought Draco as a joke on Valentine’s Day remains in their shared closet even months after it had been hung there. It’s not that Draco _wanted_ to keep it there, per se; Harry was the sentimental type. Despite sliding it over on its hanger every morning when he reaches for his robes, the wizard has said nothing about it.

Their closet had become more cluttered than ever after the inevitable trip to both Malfoy Manor and the ‘vacation’ home in France — it had been nice for Draco to give Harry a tour around the home he’d grown up in. The home, of course, being dusty after years of remaining empty. The Dark Lord’s return in Draco’s fourth year had abruptly stopped the Malfoy family’s vacations to France. 

There were other things, of course; Harry had a broom (if you open the door too far, it tumbles out, which is quite annoying), Hermione had left an old pair of heels during one of her many visits, there were children’s toys belonging to both Teddy Lupin and, occasionally, the newest Weasley members. No matter how much Draco insists they clean out their closet, Harry refuses. 

(Draco’s been cleaning up his messes for years, and the brunette has yet to notice. Not that he notices anything anyways; Harry has always been a bit dim).

Draco wasn’t sure when he’d first taken interest in the damned dress. It had started when he was hanging up freshly cleaned robes — he’d grabbed the black slip-dress with a firm hand and that, in fact, was when he’d noticed just how nice it was. It felt smooth, cool as he ran his fingers down the length of it.

As much as it pained Draco to admit, Harry never had bad style. He knew how to dress, and whether that was from spending so much time with Ginerva and Hermione, both wizards would never know. The dress was no exception; the neckline dipped low enough that it would show a considerable amount of cleavage of whichever witch decided to wear it — Draco was sure it would fall somewhere acceptable on him as well. The length seemed to be enough that it would reach midthigh, and it seemed like it was made to be form-fitting. Draco had closed the closet door with a newfound interest in the fabric.

Lingerie had been discussed at some point in their relationship, Draco was sure, as he walked past a small muggle store on his way home. The sudden thought was startling, almost as startling as the consistent thoughts of a black satin dress than hangs in a cluttered closet. Maybe it was curiosity that drew Draco into the little shop, or maybe it was an odd determination. If Draco had left with a pair of green _panties_ (Draco detests even _thinking_ the word), no one would have to know.

Maybe, just maybe, it was a combination of the _damned messy closet_ , the black dress, and the lingerie that had Draco itching to try something new. Maybe the nagging at the back of his skull had been there since he had attended Hogwarts, looking at the shoes the girls wore and wondering if he’d fit into them himself. The skirts were appealing too, and _that_ thought had definitely been the one to make the blonde start shaving his legs.

It doesn’t really matter how it happened, Draco decides; he slides his feet into the forgotten pair of heels Harry and him had buried for ages — Hermione’s, the blonde reminds himself, taking note that the black shoes fit perfectly. If they didn’t, Draco would simply resize them. Harry had left for a few hours to meet with Neville Longbottom, who apparently needed help with something Hogwarts-related. It had been nice news to hear he’d gotten a job there as the Herbology Professor. 

The dress did, in fact, fit. Draco stood up from where he sat on the side of the messy bed, stumbling with the new height difference. He would have to walk in them to the living room; there are no mirrors in the bedroom, which was more of a Harry thing. The only mirrors in the house were the one above the sink in the bathroom and the floor-to-ceiling one they’d spent ages (even with magic) hanging behind the piano. 

(The piano was Draco’s. Finding a house big enough to fit a damned _grand piano_ while still being small enough to remain cozy was not an easy task, but Harry and Draco did it anyways).

The journey was not the easiest one in the world, considering. Draco had crashed into the wall a few times, but it was worth it when he’d finally reached the living room. Over the years Draco had learned to be less narcissistic, which was quite the feat, but now he has no choice to admit he’s _gorgeous._ The last time he’d looked this good was the Yule Ball and even _that_ wasn’t comparable.

The dress did indeed fall to a little higher than mid-thigh. The straps were thin, falling over his shoulders and connecting with the front of the fabric, which began about mid-chest. Draco was sure to shave _everything_ before getting completely dressed, deciding the lingerie looked and felt better on smooth skin anyway. The heels did make Draco’s feet hurt a bit, as expected, but the cushioning charms he’d placed on them helped with that.

Draco ran a steady hand over his hip, dragging his fingers over the ending of the dress where it met the hairless skin of his thigh. It didn’t hit him that he was shaking until he let out what was supposed to be a steady breath, suddenly very aware of the trembling his fingers were doing. As strange as it was, the experience was very overwhelming.

Draco’s eyes had scanned over his legs, up to his chest, all the way past his red lips (the lipstick was his mother’s; he was lucky it hadn't expired) to his head before he realized there was someone— _Harry_ — standing a few feet behind him. Draco startles, stares at Harry through the mirror, suddenly very aware of what this must look like. They both don’t move for what feels like forever; in reality, it’s a few minutes, and then Harry takes a careful step forward.

That step turns into two more, and then a very, very gentle hand brushes over the top of Draco’s spine. The blonde feels the fabric shift even with the barely-there touches of his lover’s fingers. Harry drags them down the length of Draco’s back, lays his palm flat, and slides it around the wizard’s stomach. The step forward almost knocks Draco off his feet, attempting to keep himself balanced even as he feets Harry’s erection dig into his back.

Draco swallows the noise that fights to come out, breath coming heavier now that Harry’s touched him. “Draco,” Harry finally whispers, breaking their silence. Draco could’ve spoken, instead chose to let Harry initiate the conversation. What was he supposed to say? _I'm s_ _orry you had to walk in on me ‘dolled up,’ even if you got hard just by looking at me in the mirror!_ Harry’s a lot shorter than him now that the blonde is in heels — he’s short enough in comparison now that his chin is shoulder-height. 

Harry presses a hot, hot kiss in between Draco’s shoulder blades, places both hands firmly on Draco’s hips and rolls his own forward with a deep groan. Draco leans back, knees suddenly weak, closing his eyes; the sight of Harry in the mirror is a bit too much. Draco’s cock is hard now, the feeling all too familiar. The wizards are in their late twenties, definitely sexually active — they have to make up for the lost years at Hogwarts _somehow._

“Bedroom?” Draco mutters, places one of his hands on top of Harry’s where it’s pressed, burning, on his hip. The tingle of Harry’s magic (Draco’s tuned into it, of course, but Harry has _a lot_ of power and you can _feel_ it) is familiar, covering his skin. Harry hums and when Draco opens his eyes, the brunette has a thoughtful look on his face before he mutters, _“No.”_

Draco furrows his eyebrows in confusion, shifts on his feet. Harry moves them sideways, facing the piano; with a steady hand between Draco’s shoulder blades, he bends the blonde over the piano. Draco looks forward, drops his head to place it against the cool surface. He hadn’t realized how hot he was.

Harry drags a steady finger up Draco’s leg, bends over him, and kisses his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d wear it eventually,” He says into his boyfriend’s smooth skin, drags his hand up and under the dress to pull it up to Draco’s hips. Something stops him midway and _shit,_ Draco forgot about the lingerie! 

Harry doesn’t seem to be breathing, stands perfectly still, and looks down at the dark, dark green of the panties and the lace that lines them. They _are_ very lacey, Draco supposes, but they’d caught his eye in ways the other pairs displayed had not. The back of them resembles a corset, in a way, a ribbon stringing through them in a v-shape that frames the swell of his ass. 

Harry drops to his knees then — Draco turns his head to watch, curious, as Harry carefully pushes the black satin of the dress up to hang over the blonde’s hips. Harry groans, grabs at Draco’s ass with a firm hand, oblivious to the sound that punches from his boyfriend’s throat. Draco half-expects Harry to tug them down but _of course_ he doesn’t — he tugs them aside, instead, exposing Draco’s hole.

Draco jumps, almost breaks his ankles in the damned heels, when Harry spits, leans forward and presses his tongue to Draco’s rim. The reflection in the mirror is _filthy;_ Harry grabs Draco’s hips and tugs them back, tapping the Malfoy’s legs to spread them further. Draco’s weight is a lot more even now despite his knees being almost ready to give out.

Harry presses his tongue forward harder and it’s hot, hot, _hot_ and wet, barely presses into Draco’s hole. Draco’s fingers curl around the edge of the piano, trying to keep his eyes open even the tiniest amount to watch Harry, instead closes them and presses his cheek to the shiny black surface. They’d recently cleaned the top of the piano together — they could never reach the middle. Magic was always handy.

A finger presses inside Draco, working him open gently, and combined with Harry’s wet tongue it’s borderline overwhelming. Not that Harry hasn’t rimmed him before; there was a time he’d worked Draco open until he came not once, not twice, but _three times_ on two fingers and the brunette’s tongue. It was stupid, unbearable Gryffindor determination, and when Harry put his mind to something it was useless to fight it.

It’s a few moments of Draco whimpering into the solid surface of the piano before Harry presses in a second finger, scissoring them apart with no regard for the filthy sounds they make. Draco gasps and presses his hips back into it. Harry slips his other hand underneath, grabs Draco’s cock through the panties.

Draco’s been dripping steadily for a little while now — the fabric of the lingerie sticks to the head of his cock, which does not help with giving him any sort of friction. Draco’s hips stutter forward into the touch with a high-pitched moan, cursing under his breath when Harry slips in a _third_ finger, angling them to miss his prostate _barely._

“Harry, _shit,”_ Draco’s not sure which words come out in French, but he’s sure at least _one_ of them came out in English. The laugh Harry lets out goes straight to Draco’s cock — it’s low, almost teasing. He leans back, now focusing on fingering his boyfriend open instead of rimming him; Harry finally, _finally_ rolls his fingertips over Draco’s prostate.

The whine Draco releases is followed by, “That your sweet spot, darling?” and _yeah,_ Draco’s cock is a constant ache between his legs. He _hates_ Harry, hates that damned man for not removing the panties beforehand — Draco’s _trapped._ “It is, isn’t it? You’re all wet for me.” Harry mutters, kisses Draco’s thigh, and pulls his fingers out.

Draco can’t resist the delirious laugh that slips out when he sees Harry stumble. The man gains his balance and Draco is suddenly aware of the ache in his soles, struggling with the unfamiliar feeling of his feet being arched along a heel for a prolonged period of time. He doesn’t dwell on the pain, deciding paying attention to it just makes it worse.

Harry doesn’t remove his clothes, simply pulls his cock free from his jeans and slides the length of it over Draco’s ass — the head of it catches on Draco’s rim and the blonde moans, open and wet and so fucking _ready._

“Not going to fuck me over the keys?” Draco doesn’t have any clue where the words came from — he feels beyond them, now, borderline completely needy. There’s a small smudge of red lipstick on the surface of the piano, reminding him of what got him bent over it in the first place. Harry rolls his hips forward, his prick pressed in between Draco’s asscheeks. 

“You’ve been teaching me to play,” Harry mutters, voice lowered by a few octaves. He’s _really fucking hard,_ Draco can feel it pressed against his sweat-slicked skin. Harry grabs Draco’s hips, amused with his annoying, _disgusting_ teasing. Draco has been teaching him to play — Narcissa, his mother, had taught him to play what feels like ages ago when he was young. 

“So?”

_“So,_ you wouldn’t be able to teach me if the piano didn’t _work,”_ And with that, Harry mutters a spell under his breath, gives himself a quick stroke, and slides inside Draco with one clean thrust. Draco moans, pushing forward in his heels before rocking back, whining in relief. He feels like he’s been tortured forever.

Harry pulls back and gives a hard thrust before setting a steady pace, bordering knocking Draco off his damned feet. The dress, which the Malfoy almost forgot he was wearing, slides up until it’s bundled where his spine dips the lowest. Harry reaches up, grabs for purchase, and takes it in Draco’s hair, tugging his head back with a low groan that bounces around in Draco’s need-filled skull like a fucking _pinball._

The slap of skin is all-too-familiar, even as it’s muffled now by the panties. Draco had given up watching the mirror a while ago; a loud moan erupts from him when Harry drives his cock right into his prostate— _sweet spot,_ his lover had said, which makes it a whole lot more filthy than the blonde could have imagined. 

Draco’s incredibly lucky the heels seemed to be slip-resistant to some extent, certain he would have crashed to the floor already if they weren’t. Harry slows his thrusts, instead pushes forward into a rough grind, a guttural moan echoing into Draco’s ear when he leans down and presses his chest to Draco’s back.

Draco cries in relief when Harry pulls the panties aside, finally, _finally_ letting his cock free. A bead of pre-come spills from the head to the floor and Draco curses — judging by Harry’s delusional laugh, it was in French. It’s no secret Harry loves reducing him to cursing; there were a few memorable times he’d gotten off just on Draco’s accent and French-speaking alone. 

Harry strokes Draco only once before standing up straight and thrusting forward, letting go of Draco’s hair and instead holding him down onto the piano with a firm hand in between the Malfoy’s shoulder blades. Years of Auror work had given him quite a bit of strength. Draco’s ninety-nine percent sure Harry still works out even after leaving his position, although he’s never caught him doing so. 

(If Draco’s gotten a bit worked up over the thought of Harry working out, sweaty and hot, nobody needs to know.)

Harry curls fingers around Draco’s jaw, no doubt smearing lipstick in his attempt to get a good grip, instead, he returns back to his original position with a hand weighing on the blonde’s back. He gives a few hard thrusts that nearly send Draco flying forward into the piano — Draco’s orgasm catches him by surprise, a startled cry slipping out of him followed by a sweet whine, come splattering on the floor and the side of the piano.

Harry moans, pulls out quickly and before Draco can protest, he’s on his knees. It’s a small relief; his feet are really starting to hurt. Draco braces himself on Harry’s thigh, peering up at his lover through his eyelashes. The wizard strokes himself quickly, staring down at Draco, his mouth parted. Draco knows how he must look, wearing a dress with smeared lipstick and messy, pulled on hair — it’s enough to finish Harry off, apparently.

Draco’s eyes flutter closed as come splashes over his face, in streaks over his cheeks and mouth. Instinctively, his tongue darts out to get the substance off his lips and Harry groans from above the Malfoy, sinking down to the floor with him. Draco allows himself to lay on the floor, knowing it’s charmed to keep clean. They sit there for a while, catching their breaths — Draco more so staring at the ceiling, fighting off sleep.

Harry eventually finds it in him to wave his hand, as simple as it is, and suddenly the come that had been in the process of drying is gone from Draco’s skin; Harry lays down next to him, apparently deciding it’s not worth it to move.

They sleep on the floor; Draco goes back to the closet later that week and finds the black satin dress hung on its hanger just as it had been before.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! fuck 12! BLACK LIVES MATTER.
> 
> stalk me — 
> 
> twt. hotchnersmind, boomerrjoseph  
> insta. paperthnn  
> wattpad. paperthnn


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